


Some Milk of Human Kindness

by varenoea2



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:38:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varenoea2/pseuds/varenoea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeeves is not the paragon of domestic servants Bertie thinks he is. When Bertie finds out, however, there's no time for reprimanding. The remains of disaster must be saved. Bertie will have to be unexpectedly stout-hearted, and Jeeves will have to re-think his opinion on his mentally negligible master. And since they're both forced to see each other in a new light, maybe they can work something out...</p><p>Told from Jeeves' POV. The beginning is pretty dark, but at the same time very tacky. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, settings or storylines; they were all thought up by PG Wodehouse. This story was written and published only for fun, and no financial profit is made by anyone.

It is normally my habit upon Mr Wooster’s arrival to come to the door and greet him, if I am not engaged in a household task that I cannot possibly leave in mid-doing. Only once did he find me otherwise engaged, and it is this occasion that I am going to talk about.

Apparently, Mr Wooster came into the flat, called for me, and, not hearing an answer, assumed that I must have gone out on some errand. He took off his hat and coat, and made his way to the kitchen to look for something that would sustain him until dinner.

This was when he saw the door to my room standing half-open. I usually keep it closed, and as he walked by he got a full view of the room. Unfortunately, the foot end of my bed points towards the door. I would have much preferred it to be otherwise at that time, because he was immediately faced with the picture from the worst possible angle – instead of finding me like a sleeper, the first thing he saw was the bloody mess between my thighs. Then, walking further along the bed, he came to my bruised back, and my face, the right half of which was facing upwards, and adorned with bruises and a split lip.

I was, as you have probably already guessed, unconscious, and can only guess what his reactions were. My own memory begins with a few sharp slaps on the face, and a familiar voice calling my name urgently. 

“Sir?” I gargled.

“Jeeves! What the deuce happened here?!”

My memory was, at this moment, faint. I did not even remember my own name, much less the answer to his question. “I don’t know.”

“Who did this?”

I could, alas, only groan. 

He slapped me again, none too gently. “Damn it, Jeeves, don’t you slide off again, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” Memory came back, and mixed with my confusion and pain was the worst of all realizations: the cold truth that Mr Wooster had found me out. Under normal circumstances, this would have meant absolute disaster; but absolute disaster can become very relative under certain circumstances.

“What’s that smell in here?”

“Chloroform, sir.” 

Mr Wooster, who was visibly shaken but as kind as ever, pressed my hand. “What a day! First the trout, and now this! Don’t you dare faint again, Jeeves. I need your brain to help me cope with this. You stay horizontal and collect your wits, and I’ll call a doctor.”

“No!!” It was an instinctive cry. “Not a doctor!”

“What do you mean, no doctor! Don’t talk rot. You’re looking worse than the car Bobby Wickham crashed last November. You need a doctor, and you shall have one. No discussion.” He was just about to make his way to the telephone.

“Sir…” I sat up. I had to intervene, but my body was not ready to obey. I dragged my legs over the side of the bed and had the ground under my feet. But it had been a bad idea from the start. My stomach immediately began to turn. Fortunately the sink was just opposite the bed. I made it over to the wall just in time and emptied my stomach, and finally my knees gave in, and I would have tumbled to the ground if he had not stood beside me and steered me into a chair. Here, Mr Wooster passed me a glass of water to rinse my mouth with. My head fell to the side, into nothing, because the chair had no headrest.

“Jeeves”, said Mr Wooster and put his hands on my shoulders, “we should get you out of this bad air. Let’s dump you into the guestroom, shall we? You can lean on me. Come on.” And he slid one arm around my back and walked me towards the door. It must have been hard work; I weigh easily thirty pounds more than he does, but he pulled me through and even allowed me a short break when we walked past my dressing-gown, so that I could at least recover a certain amount of modesty. 

In the guest room, he dumped me into the crisp, clean sheets as announced, and pulled the cover over me.

“Sir”, I gulped, with perhaps more dramatic words than the strict truth would have allowed, “if you call a doctor, you’ll ruin me. You’ll end my life, such as it is.”

“Rot!”

“I’ll be put on charges of sodomy.”

“Nonsense! Nobody would think that you asked for… this!”

“But if you call a doctor, there will be investigations.” I could talk again, and more importantly, I knew what I was pleading for. “The police will see the scene of the crime, and they will find it suspicious. And worst of all, if they find the culprit, he will tell them that I…” I swallowed. This sentence had been too much for one breath. “That I brought him into this flat as a guest.”

“Well, but, I say… did you?”

I closed my eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Who was he?”

“I do not know precisely. I only met him today.”

“And you brought him here? To do what?”

I closed my eyes and kept my mouth shut. This was, as they say, the moment of truth. 

Mr Wooster may be a child in many ways, but in others he is far shrewder than most people. He thought about this for a bit, and then he said incredulously: “Are you telling me that you brought a stranger into my flat with the idea of engaging in… unholy activities with him?”

My answer was hardly audible. “Yes, sir.”

“Have you done this before?” I could hear his voice heat up.

“Yes, sir.”

“How long?”

“For nearly as long as I have been in your service, sir.” I had never been as humiliated or embarrassed as I was in this moment, yet the worst part of it was how I had let him down. I could hear it in his voice, which was full of pain, sadness and anger.

“You have been bringing men here when I wasn’t in? Are you mad? If someone had found out, imagine the scandal! I would have been in the bisque, not just you!”

“I am aware of this, sir, however…” 

“Aunt Agatha would have forced me to move to a different country where nobody knew me! Or worse still, to a nunnery! Or rather, a monkery.”

“Sir, if it had come to this”, I said meekly, “I would have done my utmost to convince everybody that the blame was only mine, and you had no notion of these affairs.”

“What good would that have done me with Aunt Agatha? Or the police, for that matter?”

He was right, and I had nothing to say, so I kept my silence.

“We’ll talk about this”, he said hotly, and then simmered down quickly. “Now let’s see how to salvage what we can of the remains. Any broken bones?”

“No, sir. Merely flesh wounds, and quite superficial.”

He groaned and put his head in his hands. “Good Lord, Jeeves! You need a doctor if ever a man needed one! Have you seen that profuse bleeding below decks?”

“It is nothing, sir”, I implored. “It is far less dramatic than it looks.”

He sat on the bedside and looked at me unhappily. “How about some ice for your face? Jeeves, now I have to fix you, and I’m the worst nurse alive.”

“It’ll all sort itself out, sir.”

He laughed bitterly. “You’re still talking rot. Oh God, you poor old thing. Well, there’s nothing for it. I think I best start by cleaning up you face.” He got up, took the bowl out of the washstand and filled it with hot water. With a washcloth, he came back to me and began to dab at me. I have to admit: I would scarcely have given him credit for the dexterity and gentleness he showed.

“How did you manage to get only the right half of your face pulverized, but not the left?” 

Tiredness was washing over me again like a wave. “I was looking over my right shoulder, sir, when he began to hit me.”

“Why?!”

“He… was not interested in what I was offering freely, so he had to antagonize me in order to make me stop offering it.” I swallowed. “In the end, it was still the same thing he wanted. He just did not want it from a willing partner.”

“But… you! You’re the size of a tree! How could he hold you down?”

“He did not come unprepared, sir. The chloroform came into it when I began to gain the upper hand.” My field of vision on the right side was narrowed quite a lot. “It appears that my right eye is swelling shut.”

“Not only that, it’s pretty purplish. Are you sure your jaw is not broken?”

“Positive, sir.” I had apparently bitten my tongue, and there was a pain in some cervical vertebrae, but my jaw was fine. 

Mr Wooster tutted worriedly all the while. I had no strength left to make an upbeat impression. The more conscious I became, the more pain won dominion over my senses. In my face, it was a normal, dull kind of pain, not unusual, and quite bearable. But (if you will pardon my language) you do not know why people call something “a pain in the arse” until you have experienced the nauseating, long-lasting sensation of true rectal pain, and this was what I was feeling now. There is nothing you can do about it, no position that brings relief. It simply won’t stop, and in my current condition I was unable to pretend I felt nothing.

Mr Wooster noticed my forced breathing. “A painkiller would be just the thing now, what?” he said earnestly. “Have we got anything in the flat?”

After I had described the way to the medicine cabinet to him, he fetched several paracetamol pills and a glass of water. While I drank it all, Mr Wooster pulled a thoughtful face. Finally he suggested: “I say, Jeeves. About that bleeding down below. It needs looking after, just to make sure you’re not completely… disembowelled. I mean to say, I have done my share of things with other men, too. I won’t see anything I haven’t seen before.”

Mr Wooster is blissfully unaware of certain conventions, and I had no mind for them at this point. The fact that he had never seen more of me than my naked wrists suddenly shrunk into nothingness. He was right, after all – I needed help, and I trusted him implicitly. My broken spirit whispered how nice it was to be taken care of by him, just this once, because I could not fend for myself. 

“As you say, sir.”

“Good.” He smiled reassuringly. “Turn over, then.”

He began by cleaning up the mess on my legs and worked his way forward to the point where they meet. I buried my face in the crook of my arm, torn between shame and relief. I do not deny that my anxiety grew, the closer he approached, but I should not have worried. His musical fingers were working exceedingly gently, and the touch of the hot, wet washcloth began to ease the pain almost immediately. 

It was here that I had time to think, and to become aware of my situation its full extent, and even though I was so well taken care of, emotions began to overwhelm me. Here I was, fallen, burned by my own cleverness, of which I had thought so highly; and Mr Wooster, a man I had arrogantly thought of as mentally negligible (and worse, I had let him feel it too), was picking up the pieces and cleaning my wounds of my own blood and another man’s sperm. Not only was this the lowest point of my existence, I was also about to lose my job, and one of the dearest friends I had ever had, all through my own fault. And Mr Wooster was being so awfully kind!

It may have been all this, and it may also have been the physical pain, as the pills had not yet shown their effect; whatever the causes, I could not hold back the tears and cried silently into the crook of my arm. But even though I managed to suppress the sobbing, Mr Wooster noticed the twitching movement of my shoulders.

“Jeeves, are you crying?” he twittered. “Am I hurting you? But why didn’t you say a word, old thing?” 

“It is a purely neurological effect, sir.” I tried to steady my voice. “Merely stress-relief. You are not hurting me, sir, really.”

“No, Jeeves. This is the last straw. I’m calling a doctor. No arguing about it now.” He got up and made his way towards the telephone.

“Then you’ll ruin me, sir”, I cried out, and this was enough to stop him in his tracks.

“But what am I going to do with you, Jeeves?” he wailed.

“Sir, a doctor would only prescribe the same things I can prescribe myself”, I babbled quickly. “Some warm baths and zinc ointment. There really is nothing else to do.”

Mr Wooster looked at me doubtfully. “Should we put you into the tub, then?” he asked.

 

The idea was an excellent one. As soon as the hot, clear water engulfed me, I could feel how good it was doing my aching body and restless mind. Mr Wooster stood leaned against the sink and eyed me worriedly. 

“How are you going to do all those errands with this demolished face?” he asked, and I could not tell if he was serious or joking. “People will think I did this to you.”

I swallowed heavily. With my new-found clearer state of mind, a very sensible idea had occurred to me. “Sir, is it already eight o’clock?”

“It’s only half past seven.”

“There is a train going to Brighton at half-past nine. One of my sisters is currently living in Brighton. I could catch the train and spend the night there, and return to you tomorrow or the day after, when I am fit for work again.”

“Oh”, said Mr Wooster. 

“If it would suit you, sir. This would also leave me enough time to visit the agency and see to it that you are sent a reasonably replacement.”

“I don’t need a replacement for one or two nights. I may be a chump, but even I can manage without getting myself killed, or worse, married.”

I swallowed again. “I am talking about a… permanent replacement, sir.”

“You want to leave the Wooster household?”

“Of course not, sir.” The tears welled up again. I hid them behind my hand. 

“Well then, don’t”, he said gently.

“You are thinking about keeping me, after… after I abused your trust to such an enormous extent?” I asked. “I could not advise it, sir. I would certainly sack me.”

“I’ve thought about it”, he said pensively. “But if I did sack you, what would I win? Of course you’ve wounded me to my soul. Especially because you’ve spent years doing what I never had the guts to do: I never invited men around to my flat for a quick one, because I was afraid you’d find out.”

I now saw the full extent of my crime. This was an aspect that had not occurred to me before. No wonder he had become so angry at me! “Sir…”

“You’ve hurt me, but let’s say no more about it. You wouldn’t be dumb enough to try the same thing ever again, would you?”

“Of course not, sir”, I said, filled with relief and gratitude, and all too quick to accept his forgiveness. 

“Why you had to be punished so harshly for it, I haven’t the faintest”, he said sadly. “I would have liked a little bit of punishment for you, but nothing like this. Anyway, scratch the agency, and the sister too. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

“Sir, I am no use for you in this current state. And you should not be burdened with having to take care of me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen you walk from the bed to the kitchen, and Lord help me, I’ll have to witness the same tragedy all over again later. You can’t walk. Let alone take a long trip tonight. You stay here and get a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow, if you’re better, you can go off into the bosom off your family, or rather, your sister.” He eyed me curiously. “Does she know? About your taste, I mean?”

“She knows. She is the only one who knows. Apart from you, sir.”

“Oh well.” He pushed himself off the sink. “I’ll get your pyjama from the chloroform room. And I might just open the window, too. You will be alright on your own? Find the zinc, and all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll leave the door open, just in case you suddenly faint again. Don’t worry, I won’t look, but I want to hear it when you suddenly start to go blub blub.”

I took care of things, put on my pyjama and crawled back to the guestroom. More than any bath, or ointment, or pain pills, it was the milk of human kindness Mr Wooster was feeding me, that was doing me good. I did not deserve it, but it was the one thing which kept me from collapsing altogether. I was humbled and grateful; I had known him to have a heart of gold, but now I was filled with wonder. My sense of duty was now stronger than ever, and a look at the clock told me that it was time for dinner. A rumbling from my stomach told me that I had not eaten since breakfast.

I was eager and willing, but not able.

Mr Wooster came into the room, in his hands a first-aid handbook, reading while he was walking. 

I cleared my throat. “I am afraid, sir, that I did not manage to prepare dinner tonight.”

“Oh, that’s no prob”, he said, leafing through the book. “I’m not that hungry, after everything. And if I get peckish, I’ll nip out for a bite of something.” He looked up. “Oh no, wait. Then you won’t get anything for dinner.”

“I can still get myself some food from the kitchen”, I said.

“Oh no, you’re not waddling around any more.” He slammed the book shut. “Have we got anything fit for human consumption?”

“Well, there are some leftover cold beef and caper sauce in the fridge. We also have bread. I would certainly not starve. It’s more than enough.”

“Is it enough for two?”

This did not bode well. I did not want Mr Wooster to play in the kitchen unsupervised. “Well, sir…”

“Stay put, Jeeves. That’s an order. Before I leave you alone and let you run around the flat to dust the china, I’ll stay here and feed you.”

There was nothing I could do. Twenty minutes later he returned with two trays, both laden with bread, cold beef, sauce, lemonade, and some apples.

“Since you don’t want a doctor”, he said, “you can use them as a ballistic to keep the doctor away.”

I wanted to smile, to show that I appreciated the attempt to cheer me up, but my bruised mouth did not allow that. “Thank you, sir”, I said, embarrassed, while he put the tray on my lap, like I had done with his morning tea countless times. Of course, he upset the lemonade, which at any other time would have made my teeth gnash in silence; but not now. He sat in his chair, and we began to eat.

I wished we could have chatted during the meal, but the truth is, I had no idea how to strike up a conversation. I suddenly became painfully aware that I could not begin to talk about my family because he did not know them; that I could not talk about his family, because speaking of this bunch of idle, selfish buffoons in this situation would be grotesque; I could not talk about philosophy, or any of the books I had read recently, because nothing in them would be of any interest to him. I was, in many ways, a very learned fool, and I had always thought Mr Wooster’s ideas and concerns trivial. Yet now, I could not even begin a conversation with him.

So I asked a simple question. “Did you have a pleasant day, sir?”

Mr Wooster stared at me, then he began to laugh, then suddenly his laughs turned into pained sobs, and then he wiped his face and said: “Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright hid a live trout in the soup terrine at dinner. Oofy Prosser was the first to find it. I’ve never heard a girlier scream in my life.”

“Undoubtedly amusing, sir.” I even managed to smile a bit. Hearing him talk about his trivial little adventures was soothing. It showed that not all the world had been turned upside down, but that in some spots normality remained. 

“And then, when Bingo wasn’t looking, Oofy shoved the poor fish down his trousers. He thought Bingo was to blame for the beast. Good heavens, Jeeves”, he said suddenly, “see to it that you never get yourself hurt like this again. I couldn’t take it. No trout in the world can ease my mind.”

“I shall endeavour to give satisfaction, sir”, I said meekly.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get an unexpected change of air. Jeeves has resolved to live like a monk. All he wants to do is fish a bit, but Bertie won't let him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, settings or storylines; they were all thought up by PG Wodehouse. This story was written and published only for fun, and no financial profit is made by anyone.

I fell asleep early that night, as I was still very worn-out from the ordeal. The next day, the sun was already shining through the windows; and the angle at which the light fell in told me that it was clearly past nine a.m.

I had overslept! I tried to leap to my feet, but was immediately stopped in my tracks by a searing, burning pain in my abdomen. So I lay back for a few more minutes and then got up slowly. Meanwhile, I was wishing yesterday to hell, and gnashed my teeth at the sheer injustice of having to suffer this. 

I found Mr Wooster in the kitchen. He was sitting at the kitchen table over his mail and telegrams.

“Ah, Jeeves”, he said warmly. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you, sir”, I said automatically, though I did really not feel any improvement. “I apologize for oversleeping, sir. I must have forgotten to set my alarm clock.”  
“You set it”, he said. “I unset it. I thought you needed a few more winks than usual.”

“That was kind of you, but not necessary”, I said stiffly. “I am not a complete invalid.”

“Speaking of it – something new has come up, Jeeves”, he said earnestly.

This did not sound good. “Yes, sir?”

He sighed. “I have here an invitation for another one of my aunt Dahlia’s yachting trips to the Mediterranean.”

“You sound sad, sir. I seem to remember that you enjoyed the last one very much.

“I did. It’s just the last thing on my mind at the mo’. But, well, I was originally planned as a trip for Angela, Tuppy and their closest relatives. Tuppy was going to bring his kid brother, and now the brat has broken his ankle, so they asked me if I wanted to come instead. The trip starts the day after tomorrow. Will you come, Jeeves, or are you going to stay with your sister and recover there?”

It had been my plan to visit my sister, but in the light of a new day I began to think that I should not burden her with my latest unfortunate adventure. I was not in such dire need of consolation any more, and it would only disturb her severely if she knew. No, it was enough if Mr Wooster was in the picture and worrying about me. Also, I felt more obliged than ever to remain by his side and do my job.

“I would very much like to accompany you, sir”, I said.

“Splendid. I thought the change of climate’s going to do you good. And the fishing, of course.” He smiled kindly. “I just have to get it through the aged r.’s thick skull that she needs to find room for you too on the boat. I can have the boy’s bed in Tuppy’s room, but we need to find you a hammock.” He got up and made his way to the door.

Since waking up, I had felt the sting of bad conscience. Yesterday, I had accepted Mr Wooster’s refusal to fire me too quickly and too readily. He might have thought better of it overnight, but now might be too chevalier to tell me so. “Sir”, I said therefore, changing the subject, “if you have thought better of your decision to keep me as your valet, despite the… incredible indiscretion I committed, you need not hesitate to let me know. Your decision might have been a spontaneous reaction of compassion, but it was not fair of me to accept it.”

“No more of that indiscretioning from you?” he said and looked at me sharply.

“Never, sir.”

“Then I won’t hear of you leaving. I want you to stay, Jeeves, I bally well do. You’re not just my valet. You’re a friend, I hope you don’t mind me saying.”

I had to put on my coolest frog façade to hide the surge of emotions. “As you say, sir.”

 

To the casual observer, Mr Wooster’s wish for me to stay might have looked like a sign of weakness – a master, so dependent on his servant, that he would not even dismiss him over the gravest of lapses! 

Nothing could be further from the truth. To dismiss me would have been sensible, but not to do so was wise. Mr Wooster could now be sure of my absolute loyalty. I would never have brought myself to deceiving him again – at least not to my own advantage. To his advantage, that was still a different matter. I was now determined to serve him better than I ever had, if such a thing was at all possible. 

Mr Wooster was reluctant to let me work that day, and I admit, I was glad whenever I could lie down and sleep. (I suspect that my latest beau had not only given me a black eye, but also a concussion; in any case, I slept a lot during the next two days.) It was more my own will to keep things in order that kept me on my feet. But what a sight I was! Creeping through the flat slowly and deliberately, unable to sit down in under ten solid seconds, or to bend to pick anything up; one wouldn’t believe what a discomfort this sort of pain is! Every cough, every sneeze caused me agony, to say nothing of other, more unspeakable functions. I was only a shadow of my usual self during the next two days. In between sleep and baths I barely managed to cook a bit and dust two rooms.

“Jeeves”, said Mr Wooster, who was reading a novel while I was swinging the duster, “will you stop that? We’re going on a six-week journey the day after tomorrow. There will be a ton of dust when we come back, but now it’s completely useless to start dusting.”

“It _is_ Thursday, sir, and the flat needs dusting.”

“Just stop already. I don’t mind a little dust.”

“I do, sir.”

It was in the early afternoon when I found him in his bedroom over the open suitcase. The bed was covered in dishevelled shirts and trousers, and colourful spots of socks dotted the battlefield. 

“May I be of assistance, sir?”

“No. You can’t bend. I can do my own packing.”

“Packing is not the word I would have used for what you’re doing, sir.” It is true, the constant nagging pain made me irritable, and I was immediately sorry. “I am sure I can assist you, even if I am physically inconvenienced.”

With Mr Wooster’s help, it was the work of an entire afternoon to do what took me alone less than forty-five minutes. At the end of it, I was more exhausted than after an entire day of housework, and I lay down on my bed for a nap and woke up the next day at eight a.m.

 

My injuries healed only slowly. At the beginning of our journey to the Mediterranean, my face began to show shades of yellow and brown instead of angry red and purple, and the burning of irritated flesh turned into the dull ache of healing in other places too. 

On the ship, fortunately, I did not have great lengths to walk, but plenty of time to recover. Of course, my demolished face caused considerable interest among Mr Wooster’s and Mr Glossop’s family, and among the servants too. The story they were told was that I had been mugged on the way home after winning a sum of money in a horse race, probably by ruffians who had seen me collect my winnings. I was in no way fit for floating, or shimmering, or whatever Mr Wooster calls my method of locomotion; but I could attribute it to a lack of sea legs.

The trip as such was an exceedingly pleasant one. The weather was fine, and no unpleasantness between the participants (servants or otherwise) arose; and I managed to keep mostly to myself, and maintain my usual impassive face when in company of others. Only Mr Wooster, of course, knew that I was not quite alright, and often had a soft look of concern in his eyes when we were alone.

But two people are rarely alone together on a yacht. In fact, apart from the times when I tucked him into bed in the evening, there was only one occasion where we were truly alone. It was during the fourth week of the trip that the ship had anchored in a beautiful Greek bay. The party of masters and mistresses had gone swimming, and I had set up a bucket and my fishing rod on one of the white rocks overlooking the water. I had been there for less than two hours when I heard splashing sounds and footsteps, and Mr Wooster came climbing over the rocks towards me, dressed in a swim suit. He had obviously taken a break from swimming to visit me.

“I say, this is a nice spot”, he said. “Do you mind if I join and sit here for a bit? I need to warm up the old bones.”

I shook my head. “Of course not, sir”, I said, although I was very much afraid that he would render all my fishing attempts moot, either by distracting me or the fish.  
For a while, he lay on a rock in silence and warmed himself like a tortoise. Then he sat up with a jerk and an air of determination. “Jeeves, are you healing nicely?”

“Thank you, sir”, I said. “I am feeling better every day.”

“Jolly good. Just making sure, what?”

“Not last, thanks to your efforts, sir.”

“Jolly good. Jolly good.” He stared at the sea again, and then turned to me like a man possessed. “Jeeves, I want you to promise me something.”

I put the rod down. It was no use. “I cannot make a promise unless you let me know what it is, sir.”

“I want you to promise that you’ll never bring strangers to my flat, or anywhere else for that matter, when the need strikes. I couldn’t bear it if this… sort of thing happened to you once more.”

I smiled. “Don’t worry, sir, this is a promise I can make easily. Indiscreet appointments have lost their intrigue for me, and have been postponed indefinitely.”

“I’m not saying you should live like a monk. But I mean to say – only trustworthy chaps.”

“There will be none of any kind, sir. I fully intend to live like a monk.”

He paused. “Don’t be ridiculous, my dear man. Your loyalty for the young master is going too far.”

“I do not think you understand, sir”, I replied. “It is not an act of loyalty, it is absolutely essential.”

He put on a thoughtful face and looked out onto the sea. Then came the kind of voice he always uses to persuade people of things he wants them to do, but he does not want them to know why they should do them. “Hm. It never pays to make these resolutions in a hurry, believe me, Jeeves. Maybe it’s beyond you now, but you never know. I mean to say, Time, the great healer, and all that. You might meet someone nice. You might even fall in love. And then where would you be with your celibacy?”

My heart stopped. My breath caught in my throat. For one split second, I was scared out of my wits. The panic subsided quickly. Of all the things I needed like a hole in the head, this was the worst: Mr Wooster was keen on me. 

To someone who did not know him, these words might just sound like innocent, friendly advice. But I knew him inside and out, and this tone of voice meant that he was preparing the ground for an idea that would benefit him. I had heard it countless times before, but never directed at me. 

My initial reaction was one of defence; the only sensible reaction, of course, when one’s employer is making advances. My first thought was also one of indignation: what kind of man would make advances on someone who had so recently had his body and soul wounded so deeply? But then, of course, he had made no advances at all. He had never said anything inappropriate. It was only my ability to read him that told me of his interest. So I reminded myself to formulate an appropriate answer which would nip his intentions in the bud. It was very easy: all I had to tell him was the truth.

“Sir”, I said after the pause, “you do not seem to understand how deep my injuries go. The physical bruises are healing, but I am afraid that the mental wounds will take a long time. You may be right, perhaps I will desire and even love again someday. But at present, I do not even want to think about intimacies. I cannot even say that I miss feeling the desire for them.”

“Right-ho. Absolutely!” 

“Will you take part in the trip to the ruins later, or will you remain here for tea?”

“I’m going. No tea for me, especially in this weather! Well, I’ll be off. The fish need me down there. Toodle-pip!”

 

He plodded back to the sea, and I sat on my rock, the fishing-rod forgotten in my lap. I was glad to be alone, because I needed to think more urgently than ever before. My earlier panic had subsided completely and left me capable of going through all the facts, to figure out one last fact: what on earth was I supposed to do about Mr Wooster’s new infatuation?

After only a few minutes, I had made sure that nothing was as bad as it had seemed at first. He had not even approached me about it, and I had cut off any notion of doing so. I had nothing to fear from him, he was far too unselfish to press the issue any further. 

What a strange world this was! What causes could lead to which effects!

And again, I could not help viewing Mr Wooster in a new light.

I had never felt at all attracted to him, neither romantically nor sexually. There were several reasons for this. The most important one was that I had had no notion that his tastes ran in a similar direction as mine. But even if I had, it would have scarcely made a difference.

Of course our relationship as master and servant made it completely impossible for me to consider him as a fling – you cannot spend one night of hedonistic passion together and then meet again over eggs, bacon and kippers. But even if this had not been so, he was far too slim and blond for my taste, his face too soft and vacant. 

In a romantic relationship, his looks might not have mattered so much. When it comes to love, it is, after all, not so much a perfect face but a kindred soul one is looking for. But one cannot love without respecting and admiring the other to some degree. And no matter how fond I was of his kindness and cheerfulness, I looked on him as a child, for whom I had no respect at all.

But now, his latest actions had commanded respect from me. He had shown courage and stoutness of heart, an iron core under the golden exterior. The violent, twisted events he had witnessed must have disturbed him deeply. It would have been easy to yell at me and turn me out on my ear. To help patching up a broken man, even when feeling helpless himself, was much harder. To me, it was a sign of true greatness. 

I do not know what I would have done in his place – if I had come to the flat and found him bloody and violated. Heaven help me, I would probably have tried to be discreet about it. I would not have said a word that mattered, but a lot of polite things that did not matter at all! His heart seemed to be wiser than my head in these things. I was, of course, not glad that it had been me. But the mere thought that something like this might happen to him! I knew I would pull through, and eventually file that fateful day in a cabinet of my mind, and be done. Mr Wooster, who knew nothing about how hard life could be, would have taken it much harder in my place. And yet he had not flinched at the challenge of fixing me.

No, Mr Wooster had changed a lot in my eyes. To others, his chivalric nature might look ridiculous, but there was a lot more to it than met the eye. Let others see him as a laughable Don Quixote who failed to slay windmills! I had seen what he could do when faced with a dragon. Could I help feeling lucky to be stuck with him? 

In the hours that I spent on this rock, I began to feel a kind of tenderness for my employer which transgressed a normal relationship. Gently and almost unnoticeably, it bled into unknown territory. 

Gently and almost unnoticeably, also, I contracted a case of sunstroke, which was only to be expected.


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie has read too much cheesy literature. Jeeves begins to swoon quietly. Then Aunt Dahlia comes into the game too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, settings or storylines; they were all thought up by PG Wodehouse. This story was written and published only for fun, and no financial profit is made by anyone.

Mr Wooster had gone to visit the ruins with a party from the company, and they were not expected back before dinner. So I had enough time to lie down in the empty cabin I shared with two more servants, close my eyes and put a wet cloth on my forehead. I felt sick and feverish, and I had just managed to fall asleep when the door opened and Mr Wooster came in quietly.

“Jeeves?”

“Yes, sir? I am sorry, I did not expect you back so soon. Did you require anything?”

“It’s fine.” He came close and sat on the side of my bed, which was hardly broad enough for me. He looked me up and down and then sighed heavily. “Am I to blame?”

“Sir?”

“Well, for this here. I bring back the memory and a few hours later you come down with a fever. Dash it all, I can’t seem to do a thing right. You were probably just forgetting, and then I come along and scratch at the old wound again.”

I began to understand where he was going. I would have to be blunt. “Sir, this had nothing to do with you mentioning my violation, and everything to do with me sitting in the sun for five hours without a hat.”

He sighed again. “Are you sure of that?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“I would hate for you to die of a broken heart. I want to make you better, but I can’t seem to do it right.”

I had to explore the depths carefully. “Sir, have you been reading _Milady’s Boudoir_ recently? I am referring specifically to the new series by Pomona Grindle, _She was a Slave of Fate_?”

“Yes. Funny you should ask.”

“I see, sir. I assure you, outside of literature people seldom die of a broken heart.” I had never more heartily disapproved of his choice of literature than I did now. Of all the imbecilities! To mistake me for a fainting melodrama heroine! “In fact, you are helping me very much just by being there.” (Even though you are being very trying at times.) “This is nothing but sunstroke. I will be on my feet again to serve at dinner.”

For a moment, his hand twitched. I had the impression that he had stopped himself from petting my head. “Jolly good. What a relief.”

 

A lot of things changed in the next few days, even though nothing was really altered except my view on certain things. Mr Wooster’s eyes were cornflower-blue, I knew, but for the first time I became conscious of thinking what a rare and deep colour they were. Next was the length of his eyelashes, which I had never noticed because they were blond and quite invisible, unless one looked closely. If one did, however, one had to admit that they rested on his cheeks as attractively as any girl’s. Then came the short-clipped hair in the back of his neck, which seemed to invite the touch of one’s fingers. 

He was delightful to look at. 

And he was, I noticed, not so much slim as wiry. Illuminated by the strong Mediterranean sun, the hair on his arms and legs seemed gold-coloured. Well, maybe Jason and his Argonauts sailed these waters hunting for the Golden Fleece thousands of years ago, but I found it growing on Mr Wooster’s forearms. 

To make it clear: I was feasting my eyes, but I had no incentive to feast any other senses. Everything I had told him earlier held perfectly true: I wanted no closeness of any kind. I discovered and him, bit by bit, in secrecy, and treasured every new quality I found. 

And everything was fine, except for one regret: I should have noticed all this much earlier. Then we might have been a couple long ago; and I would never have gone to Soho on that fateful day, and not have been injured, and I would not now be plagued by the crippling memory of sexual violence – the one thing that kept me from becoming his.

On the other hand, of course, had none of this happened, I would never have found out what a soul he hid under his ludicrous exterior, and I would not now be interested at all.

 

But perhaps, you think, I was suffering from an illusion? Mistaking friendliness for romantic interest where there was none? Four days after the events on the rock, my suspicions were confirmed – and yes, I admit, it was through eavesdropping that I found out. I walked past Mrs Travers’ cabin door, and from inside I heard my master’s voice. Only out of habit, I listened for a few seconds, and then stayed put in place.

“Now what’s so important that you need to keep me from getting a tan?” asked Mrs Travers.

“Listen, aged A.”, I heard Mr Wooster say. “I need your advice. I’m in love.”

“Good Lord, no.”

“Yes. And I need someone to talk to, because the affair is a rather scaly one.”

“What does Jeeves say about it?”

“I can’t ask Jeeves. It’s a very sticky sitch, and it needs the feminine touch. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“Please keep it clean, whatever comes next.”

“Aunt Dahlia. I’m being dashed serious. I need your help.”

Something in his tone must have startled her, because she paused briefly and then continued: “Right. Tell me all.”

Mr Wooster sighed. “The girl I’m in love with is damaged goods.”

“How do you mean?” She sounded encouraging, almost motherly now. 

“Well, she had a fiancé before, and…” Again, a sigh.

“And you’re going to worry about that? Bertie, this is the 20th century! I never put you down as a prude! What do you think Tom and me did on all these hunting trips before our wedding? The only fox he hunted was me.”

“It’s… oh, Aunt Dahlia, I did not need to know that! Besides, it’s not that! Oh, dash it all.”

“Sorry, young blot, but I don’t understand. Is she pregnant?”

“No! No, absolutely not.” He groaned. Then the words came out very quickly. “The bird raped her, and now she wants nothing to do with men.”

There was a brief silence. “Oh”, said Mrs Travers. “Oh dear.”

The silence held for a minute or two. Then Mrs Travers asked: “What kind of a girl is she?”

“Very serious. You’d like her. Sensible. And clever! Works for her living. I can’t tell you more. Can’t go bandying a woman’s name about if I tell you such details about her, what?”

“True.” Mrs Travers paused. “What does she think about you?”

“She thinks I’m a chump.”

“But she likes you?”

“I think so.”

“Well, then. Not all is lost.” Mrs Travers seemed to chew her lip. “Yes, the longer I think about it, the more sense it makes. You won’t believe it, Attila, but I think your chances are not all that bad. That is, if anybody has a chance to win that girl’s trust, it’s you.”

“Really, old blood?” Mr Wooster sounded surprised.

“Well, she’s seen the worst that men can be. And you – incredible though it may sound – you are certainly of the best sort.”

“But…”

“No, let me finish.” Mrs Travers sounded like a bloodhound on a trail. “If she wants someone who couldn’t hurt a fly, you’re it. You’d worship the ground she walks on. You may be solid brick from the neck up, but you’re good to the bone. Just the sort a wounded heart needs. A kind, sweet chap who will always be good to her, and make her laugh.”

Mr Wooster did not answer immediately. Then, incredulously: “Is that your picture of Bertram?”

“If you wiped that meditating cow look off your face, she might realize you’re actually human.”

“And that, coming from the woman who calls me a fathead more often than my name? I’m touched, old thicker-than-water! Positively stirred! But there is still one obstacle to overcome, in re: she wants nothing to do with men.”

“Nothing to be done about it, I’m afraid, if the state is permanent. But maybe it’s not. Are you ready to wait for her?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then you’ve got to ask her if there’s a point in waiting.” 

Mr Wooster sighed. “But I can’t just pop the question! It takes tact and intuition, and I don’t have any. If I give her so much as the old eyes, I’ll make her feel like the Bastille.”

“Then be her friend! Be subtle. Or at least try. And when the time is right, tell her that you love her. No ring, no getting down on your knees, no fancy nonsense. Tell her you love her. And then prove it.”

“It all sounds perfectly simple if you say it”, sighed Mr Wooster. 

“And, I should mention right now, none of your fancy schemes. None of Jeeves’ fancy schemes, either. Just plain old honesty. Sprinkle in some adoring looks, but don’t overdo it. You look ungulate already on some days.”

“I’ll try. I can’t thank you enough, aged a., for understanding the soup I’m in.”  
“Chin up, Bertie. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

This was the point where I had to remove myself from the scene. The dialogue might be over soon, and I did not wish to be found anywhere near. Mr Wooster knows too well that I overhear anything I can.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aunt Dahlia is shrewder than she looks, and decides to tackle Jeeves for a bit of truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters belong to PG Wodehouse. I'm just writing fanfiction - for fun, not for profit.

I have always liked Mrs Travers. Of all of Mr Wooster’s relatives, she was the most agreeable, or “a sound egg”, as Mr Wooster would say. To me, she often seemed the closest thing Mr Wooster had to a mother. Even though they were related through marriage, not blood, they both shared one rare characteristic: they always acted fair towards the servants. This is, in fact, a much rarer characteristic than one would think. 

Also, Mrs Travers’ intelligence surpasses not only Mr Wooster’s, but also that of all his blood relatives. (I reckon that while the Woosters fought at Agincourt, Mrs Travers’ side of the family stayed far away from the fight. It would make sense.) But she proved more intelligent than I had thought her.

The same day, she caught me alone while I was washing up dishes in the galley. 

“Jeeves”, she said and eyed me sharply, “did they catch the ruffian who did this to your face?”

I knew immediately that she was suspecting the right thing.

“No, I am afraid not, madam”, I said and turned back to the dishes. “It is possible that he has been caught since we left London, but I am afraid I could not give a useful description. I was quite concussed.”

“Well, I hope my nephew went easy on you with the housework.”

“Absolutely, madam.”

“Good. He is a little slow to catch up on these things sometimes.”

Faced with someone who would listen to it, my enthusiasm could not be held under wraps any longer. “Mr Wooster was really most considerate. He may seem absent-minded at times, but in all the time I have known him, I have never seen him thoughtless about anything of importance. With respect, madam, I would not call him slow.”

She smiled inscrutably. “That’s one way of seeing it. Anyway, I’m glad you’re on the mend. A treasure like you must be preserved.” She became serious, very serious. “It’s terrible what some people will do to other people for something like money. I mean, apart from the bruises and the loss of your winnings. When you came on board, you were looking… rattled. Not quite the Jeeves I knew. I’m glad to see you’re better now.”

At this point, I felt a sudden urge to tell Mrs Travers how I felt. Not exactly how I felt, of course, but something had to come to the surface without being given away. The idea that she had an inkling of the things I had to hide from everyone, that I could talk to her – it made me weak. I could not help begging for a little sympathy.

“In am afraid”, I said carefully, “that the events did indeed rattle me, perhaps overly so. It was, perhaps, a drastic incident for me because it was my first experience with physical violence. I found it highly disturbing.”

“The first?” Mrs Travers wrinkled her forehead incredulously. “But you must have been caned as a child, at some point?”

“Never, madam. I was a very well-behaved and bookish boy. I never even played violent games.”

“Not even rugby?”

“No, madam. It is as you’ve said: The things people will do to other people. It made a deep impact. I am afraid I let it get the better of me.”

“Nonsense, Jeeves. You’ve been beyond reproach, like always”, she trumpeted. “Now there’s one thing you can do for me. My nephew tells me he has a serious interest in a girl he knows. Would you know anything about that?”

“I really cannot say, madam.”

“I’m not asking what you can say. I’m asking: Do you know anything about the girl? Who she is, what she does for a living, if she’s a good sort or a goose like the kind Bertie usually falls for?”

“Madam, if the young lady does anything for a living, she must move outside the upper-class circles. In that case, I have probably never heard of her.”

“It sounds as if he has known her for a while.”

“My duties do not extend to accompanying Mr Wooster to all of his social meetings.” I looked her firmly in the eye. “I am afraid the only thing I can tell you is that I know nothing about the existence of any young lady of the description you made.”

Now I had said everything, and nothing all at the same time. If Mrs Travers wanted to understand my hint as to who the mystery girl was, she knew now. If she did not approve of it, there was nothing she could do, because everything I had said was still perfectly innocuous.

Mrs Travers stared right back at me. “Well”, she said slowly, and I admit that it became hard for me to hold out against her piercing gaze, “I’m sure Bertie knows what he’s doing. I’m sure the girl will be good for him. You will watch over him, won’t you, and not let him make any stupid decisions he might regret?” The last sentence had an unexpected sharpness to it.

“Certainly, madam”, I said and wished the interview were over. My voice was losing steadiness. She understood me perfectly well, she was aware of my stricken state, and yet she was acting as if I were on trial. Had I underestimated her? Would she, if she disapproved of Mr Wooster’s affection for me, turn out to be a harder woman than Mrs Gregson?  
But then she smiled warmly. “Of course you will. I can trust you to keep him safe from exploitation and heartbreak. If you feel things are getting out of hand, don’t be embarrassed to ask me for help. I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you, madam.” She had said a lot between the lines, and although I would make no use of her offer, it relieved me enormously to know that she was on my side.


End file.
